Thank you SehranForever. I’m really glad those lines caught your hand like that.
That moment was written as a kind of pause you don’t rush through — when effort finally lets go and you realise you don’t need a reason for the stillness anymore.
I also love that you lifted just those lines; it feels like you stayed with them rather than passing through.
Oh brother! I had to read it a few times! It feels like a dream that refuses to resolve—and that’s the magic of it.
The way “the water held us / without holding” is quietly devastating, and that ending—still warmth—lingers like a pulse after the lights go out. Beautifully unsettling, in the most gentle way.
Especially the refuses to resolve part. That was very much the intention: something dreamlike that doesn’t collapse into explanation, just keeps pulsing quietly in the body.
I’m really glad “held us / without holding” landed for you — that tension felt fragile to write, but it’s the hinge the whole piece turns on.
And yes… still warmth is meant to linger rather than conclude, like the sensation stays even after the scene has gone dark.
Thank you for sitting with it long enough to let it do that.
Then mission accomplished. Consider me happily unresolved. The pulse is still there. I’m clearly still carrying it around in my nervous system. Thank you for trusting the piece to breathe instead of explaining itself.
ran us right into the blue and then tucked us in there. all that motion just to earn the quiet. soft, floaty, and comforting in the way nothing follows and that’s somehow okay.
The poem feels like someone remembering a night when the world softened just enough for two people to breathe differently, as if running together created a small pocket of safety inside a vast, uncertain landscape. There’s something deeply human in the way warmth appears not as comfort promised or returned, but as a quiet presence that lingers even when nothing is explained. The falling stars swallowed by rivers, the rocks holding back a shout, all feel like the night mirroring the speaker’s own fragile, trembling interior. And when the water “holds without holding,” it captures that rare moment when you feel supported by something you can’t quite name, something that asks nothing of you. The stillness they reach isn’t a gift; it’s something earned through breath, closeness, and the simple act of not turning away. What makes the poem so tender is its refusal to force meaning or closure. Nothing resolves, nothing follows. There is only blue, and a warmth that stays soft, persistent, and human in the quietest possible way.
Thank you so much Adrião, you’ve read this piece with extraordinary care. Thank you for that.
What really struck me is how you held both the tenderness and the uncertainty at the same time — the warmth not as something promised or exchanged, but as a presence that simply lingers without explanation. That’s exactly the balance I was trying to stay with: safety without guarantees, support without obligation.
I also love how you framed the stillness as something earned rather than given. That feels true to the piece — the idea that closeness, breath, and not turning away do the work quietly, without ceremony or resolution.
Your reading doesn’t just describe the poem; it moves through it in the same way it was written.
I’m genuinely grateful for that level of attention.
When I read your poem, I don’t know why I thought of the siren’s song — it draws you into a dreamlike space where you no longer know what is real and what isn’t. I liked it very much.
That sense of drifting into a space where the edges of reality soften — where you’re not quite sure what’s solid and what’s felt — is very close to what I was exploring.
I’m really glad you let the poem pull you there rather than trying to resolve it.
That kind of listening feels exactly right for it.
The sea evokes so much for me including peace, ancestry, metamorphosis. Your words here are incredible. The idea of edges blurred and being held. Love.
Thank you so much Candy. That’s a beautiful way of meeting it.
I love what you brought to the sea there: ancestry, metamorphosis, that long sense of time and belonging layered under the surface. It feels right for this piece — the water as something vast enough to hold all of that without needing to choose just one meaning.
And I’m glad “held us / without holding” resonated. That blur of edges is exactly the space I was trying to stay in — where peace and unease can exist together without cancelling each other out.
Mark, what stays with me most is how this poem accepts unanswered intimacy...warmth that doesn’t reply, doesn’t resolve, yet remains real. The refusal of closure feels honest, almost brave. It reminds us that some moments don’t end; they stop asking for meaning.
The stillness here feels earned, not empty...a quiet truth many of us recognize but rarely name.
I really like the way you name unanswered intimacy here. That feels exactly right: not absence or failure, but something that remains real without replying or resolving.
There’s a maturity in allowing a moment to stop asking for meaning and still letting it matter.
And yes — the stillness isn’t decorative.
It’s the kind that arrives after effort, after reaching, after listening.
Naming that so gently feels like meeting the poem where it’s already standing.
Thanks, Mark. Mark, I want to get some guidelines from you. I give people as much writing credit as possible, but when I post my article, everyone runs away. Is my content not readable? While I am surprised to see the content of many people, what nonsense is this, but I still give credit. Only 7 people came to my last song. Is this happening to me, or does it happen to everyone? I don't know what people want. I still don't understand. I am thinking about what I have to quit next, and I will do it now. I am very disappointed at this time.
I don’t think this is something that can be answered properly in a comment thread, and I also don’t think it’s a reflection of the value or readability of your work. What you’re describing happens to far more people than admit it, especially when the work asks for attention rather than instant consumption.
Platform response is a noisy, unreliable signal. It’s shaped by timing, habit, algorithms, mood, and audience overlap far more than by quality. Low turnout is not a verdict on the writing, even though it feels like one when you’ve put care into something.
I’f you'd like to talk through this via email (mine is on your subscriber list) or DM, do reach out — not to “fix” anything, but to slow it down and look at what’s actually happening, together.
And just to say this clearly, before anything else: please don’t make decisions about quitting from a position of feeling disappointment. That’s a heavy moment to be carrying alone and we are here for you.
Message me when you feel up to it. No urgency, no obligation.
Thank you so much SheHermit and for your beautiful reflection 😊
I love how you followed the images rather than trying to pin them down — falling stars, breath, wrists, water — that sense of being carried from one feeling into the next is exactly what I hoped might happen.
And I’m glad it left you with that warmth, that buoyant, almost giddy lift.
we floated long enough
for stillness to feel earned,
for motion to stop asking
what it was for
🖐️
Thank you SehranForever. I’m really glad those lines caught your hand like that.
That moment was written as a kind of pause you don’t rush through — when effort finally lets go and you realise you don’t need a reason for the stillness anymore.
I also love that you lifted just those lines; it feels like you stayed with them rather than passing through.
Oh brother! I had to read it a few times! It feels like a dream that refuses to resolve—and that’s the magic of it.
The way “the water held us / without holding” is quietly devastating, and that ending—still warmth—lingers like a pulse after the lights go out. Beautifully unsettling, in the most gentle way.
Thank yo so much Dipti!
Especially the refuses to resolve part. That was very much the intention: something dreamlike that doesn’t collapse into explanation, just keeps pulsing quietly in the body.
I’m really glad “held us / without holding” landed for you — that tension felt fragile to write, but it’s the hinge the whole piece turns on.
And yes… still warmth is meant to linger rather than conclude, like the sensation stays even after the scene has gone dark.
Thank you for sitting with it long enough to let it do that.
Then mission accomplished. Consider me happily unresolved. The pulse is still there. I’m clearly still carrying it around in my nervous system. Thank you for trusting the piece to breathe instead of explaining itself.
Happily unresolved is a lovely term that I will be carrying with me in my back pocket now to show people :)
💛 ☺️ 💛
Happy to contribute to your pocket lexicon—use sparingly, may cause lingering feelings.
Haha - That’s sending me off on a whole line of thoughts! 😂
Oh no… now it’s doing what unresolved things do best.
Beautifully written. Thank you.
Thank you so much @Sara da Encarnação 😊
“still warmth”
ran us right into the blue and then tucked us in there. all that motion just to earn the quiet. soft, floaty, and comforting in the way nothing follows and that’s somehow okay.
The poem feels like someone remembering a night when the world softened just enough for two people to breathe differently, as if running together created a small pocket of safety inside a vast, uncertain landscape. There’s something deeply human in the way warmth appears not as comfort promised or returned, but as a quiet presence that lingers even when nothing is explained. The falling stars swallowed by rivers, the rocks holding back a shout, all feel like the night mirroring the speaker’s own fragile, trembling interior. And when the water “holds without holding,” it captures that rare moment when you feel supported by something you can’t quite name, something that asks nothing of you. The stillness they reach isn’t a gift; it’s something earned through breath, closeness, and the simple act of not turning away. What makes the poem so tender is its refusal to force meaning or closure. Nothing resolves, nothing follows. There is only blue, and a warmth that stays soft, persistent, and human in the quietest possible way.
Thank you so much Adrião, you’ve read this piece with extraordinary care. Thank you for that.
What really struck me is how you held both the tenderness and the uncertainty at the same time — the warmth not as something promised or exchanged, but as a presence that simply lingers without explanation. That’s exactly the balance I was trying to stay with: safety without guarantees, support without obligation.
I also love how you framed the stillness as something earned rather than given. That feels true to the piece — the idea that closeness, breath, and not turning away do the work quietly, without ceremony or resolution.
Your reading doesn’t just describe the poem; it moves through it in the same way it was written.
I’m genuinely grateful for that level of attention.
When I read your poem, I don’t know why I thought of the siren’s song — it draws you into a dreamlike space where you no longer know what is real and what isn’t. I liked it very much.
Thank you Phoeby ☺️
That sense of drifting into a space where the edges of reality soften — where you’re not quite sure what’s solid and what’s felt — is very close to what I was exploring.
I’m really glad you let the poem pull you there rather than trying to resolve it.
That kind of listening feels exactly right for it.
The sea evokes so much for me including peace, ancestry, metamorphosis. Your words here are incredible. The idea of edges blurred and being held. Love.
“the water held us
without holding,
blue spreading
until edges forgot themselves.”
Thank you so much Candy. That’s a beautiful way of meeting it.
I love what you brought to the sea there: ancestry, metamorphosis, that long sense of time and belonging layered under the surface. It feels right for this piece — the water as something vast enough to hold all of that without needing to choose just one meaning.
And I’m glad “held us / without holding” resonated. That blur of edges is exactly the space I was trying to stay in — where peace and unease can exist together without cancelling each other out.
Mark, what stays with me most is how this poem accepts unanswered intimacy...warmth that doesn’t reply, doesn’t resolve, yet remains real. The refusal of closure feels honest, almost brave. It reminds us that some moments don’t end; they stop asking for meaning.
The stillness here feels earned, not empty...a quiet truth many of us recognize but rarely name.
Thank you, Dawnithic, and that’s beautifully put.
I really like the way you name unanswered intimacy here. That feels exactly right: not absence or failure, but something that remains real without replying or resolving.
There’s a maturity in allowing a moment to stop asking for meaning and still letting it matter.
And yes — the stillness isn’t decorative.
It’s the kind that arrives after effort, after reaching, after listening.
Naming that so gently feels like meeting the poem where it’s already standing.
Thanks, Mark. Mark, I want to get some guidelines from you. I give people as much writing credit as possible, but when I post my article, everyone runs away. Is my content not readable? While I am surprised to see the content of many people, what nonsense is this, but I still give credit. Only 7 people came to my last song. Is this happening to me, or does it happen to everyone? I don't know what people want. I still don't understand. I am thinking about what I have to quit next, and I will do it now. I am very disappointed at this time.
Dawnithic, thank you for saying this so honestly.
ㅤ
I don’t think this is something that can be answered properly in a comment thread, and I also don’t think it’s a reflection of the value or readability of your work. What you’re describing happens to far more people than admit it, especially when the work asks for attention rather than instant consumption.
Platform response is a noisy, unreliable signal. It’s shaped by timing, habit, algorithms, mood, and audience overlap far more than by quality. Low turnout is not a verdict on the writing, even though it feels like one when you’ve put care into something.
I’f you'd like to talk through this via email (mine is on your subscriber list) or DM, do reach out — not to “fix” anything, but to slow it down and look at what’s actually happening, together.
And just to say this clearly, before anything else: please don’t make decisions about quitting from a position of feeling disappointment. That’s a heavy moment to be carrying alone and we are here for you.
Message me when you feel up to it. No urgency, no obligation.
Thanks, Mark, yes, this is really not the place for such things. You said it right. Thank you very much for giving such suggestions. Have a good day.
The sparing repetition and rhyme here do their work and anchor the emotions so they can float free but stay cohesive. Lovely piece.
I love how you've put that Moll.
I really like the idea of anchoring emotions so they can float.
That balance was exactly what I was hoping for: enough structure to hold things together, but not so much that the feeling gets pinned down.
I’m glad it came through as cohesive rather than contained.
Thank you 💛 🫶 💛
You achieved it wonderfully, and I have. a feeling you will master it even more intricately going forward. I’m here to watch!
💛 🫶 💛
Thank you so much SheHermit and for your beautiful reflection 😊
I love how you followed the images rather than trying to pin them down — falling stars, breath, wrists, water — that sense of being carried from one feeling into the next is exactly what I hoped might happen.
And I’m glad it left you with that warmth, that buoyant, almost giddy lift.
Thank you again 🌟 🤩 🌟